


Take It Easy On My Heart

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Greg is a Good Boyfriend, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Mycroft is a good brother, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Therapy, bowling, mycroft in jeans, mycroft is more messed up than originally anticipated, rosie likes sherlock better than john, sherlock and john are morons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9595850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Greg realizes there's a lot more that Mycroft's not telling him. Sherlock and John are oblivious morons.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Mercy by Shawn Mendes.  
> Wow guys, this was supposed to be cute fluffy bowling and then it went and had to be angsty too. Oops?  
> Thanks to Lavender_and_Vanilla for double-checking my timeline. In case it matters to anyone, I figure that scene where Sherlock and Mycroft's parents basically shit on Mycroft probably takes place after Lean On Me but before Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home, and the violin concert hasn't happened yet.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

“She wants to know about my _family_ ,” Mycroft brought the knife down sharply to punctuate the word, although the motion was unneeded. His tone said it all.

“Careful, love,” Greg said absently. “You’re going to chop more than just the carrots if you don’t pay attention.”

Mycroft shot him a withering look, “I’m perfectly capable of chopping vegetables without injuring myself, Gregory.”

Greg consulted the box on the counter again, and then dumped a healthy amount of pasta into the pot boiling on the stove. He took the cutting board out from under Mycroft’s knife, swept the carrots into the other pot, and covered both of them. He turned back to Mycroft and leaned against the counter. “So, the terrible, evil therapist wants to know about your family?” It was a full week after Greg had finally convinced Mycroft to get professional help, and for once Greg had been the one to open the door for Mycroft. He’d been waiting at Mycroft’s house, glad that his boyfriend was finally leaving the premises (albeit reluctantly), and when Mycroft had stormed in with his patented ‘I could ruin your life with the push of a button’ look on his face, Greg had taken his momentum and steered him into the kitchen to help with dinner.

Mycroft set the knife down on the island and faced Greg. He huffed, “I had a perfectly adequate childhood. Why should she need to know about my family?”

Greg gave him a pointed look, “You’re barely on speaking terms with your parents, your brother is a recovering junkie who keeps invading your boyfriend’s crime scenes, and your sister is literally a psychopath who tried to kill you, not just recently, but also during that ‘perfectly adequate’ childhood you mentioned. I’m pretty sure your family is responsible for at least half of the shit that’s messed you up, and talking to your therapist about it will help.”

It looked for a moment like Mycroft was considering protesting, but finally he pursed his lips and looked away, clearly annoyed that Greg was right. “I’m not used to telling people… _anything_ about myself.”

“Believe me,” Greg laughed, “I know.” He reached across the space and grabbed Mycroft’s hand, pulling it to his lips so he could kiss it before releasing it again. “You are a very stubborn bastard when you want to be, but when you let people in, when you trust them, they can be there for you.”

“Apparently my support system is rather lacking,” Mycroft admitted. “Her opinion, not mine.”

“Love, your support system consists of me and Anthea. I’m not saying you have to tell everyone your problems, but you could stand to have a few more friends.”

“Yes, because I’m exactly the kind of person everyone wants to be friends with,” Mycroft said dryly.

The pasta pot chose that moment to boil over, so Greg’s answer was cut off in favor of him saving dinner. Once the pot was righted, the heat turned down, and the excess water mopped up carefully, he said, “Your brother would be a start. He’s worried about you, and he thinks you still hate him.”

Mycroft frowned, “I never hated Sherlock. I was disappointed in him, certainly, but I never hated him.”

“Well he doesn’t know that,” Greg pointed out. “I know going out for dinner is probably a bit much for you still, but we could arrange to do something with him, maybe have John and Rosie come too. Well. Maybe not Rosie.”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft scoffed, “a perfectly casual double date with my brother and his partner. Maybe we should go visit and play charades!”

“The sarcasm is not needed,” Greg pointed a finger at Mycroft. “Just because you and Sherlock pretend to be incapable of socializing like normal people doesn’t mean you can’t be civil. I’ve seen you do it.” He considered for a moment and then added as an afterthought, “And John and Sherlock aren’t a couple.”

“They are living and raising a child together,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Rosie is Sherlock’s goddaughter, and that does not inherently make them a couple,” Greg countered.

“They moved in together after one day of knowing each other.”

“Still doesn’t make them a couple.”

“Even when he was married it was obvious John was still smitten with Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Are you honestly saying that they aren’t infatuated with each other?”

“I never said that,” Greg responded. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people less subtle about being in love. I’m just saying that they aren’t together because they’re both too dense to see that. They’ll figure it out sooner or later.” He checked the clock, and then said, “Dinner time. Help me with this, would you?”

There was chicken to accompany the pasta and carrots, and it was all light enough that it didn’t take much coaxing for Mycroft to finish a small plate. Mycroft was trying, at any rate, a fact that relieved Greg.

When they were changing into their pajamas for bed (Greg had moved some of his clothes into a drawer in Mycroft’s room when it became clear that he was spending more nights there than at his own flat), Mycroft said, “the…date idea. If you really think it’d be good, I wouldn’t be entirely opposed.”

Greg turned to look at him, surprised, and Mycroft blushed despite the fact that the only skin he was showing was a bit of his chest from where his pajama top was only half buttoned. “Really?” Greg asked, incredulous. “You’d really be okay with having a night out with John and Sherlock?”

Mycroft already looked like he was regretting agreeing to it. “If my brother is amiable to the idea, I would be willing to make the effort.”

Greg climbed into bed and kissed Mycroft, who had slipped in beside him. When they parted, he murmured, “I’ll ask them tomorrow, see if they’re interested.” He wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s waist and settled in.

***

Greg bounded up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, marveling at how, now that the renovations were finished, you couldn’t tell it had been blown up in the first place. What’s more, from what Greg could see, it looked exactly the same as before the explosion.

He didn’t even have to knock on the doorframe before Sherlock called out, “Come in, Lestrade.” The consulting detective was sitting in his chair, hands clasped in a gesture Greg recognized as his ‘thinking’ position. It would have been a sight Greg had seen a thousand times, had it not been for the baby toys scattered around the floor at his feet. Before Greg could say a word, Sherlock called, “John! Lestrade’s here!”

As Greg stepped into the room, John entered from the kitchen, Rosie balanced on his hip. From the towel thrown over his shoulder and the way he was rubbing the baby’s back soothingly, Greg figured he must have just missed meal time. Catching sight of him, John gave Greg a confused smile, “Hi. Got a case for Sherlock?” He sounded wistful. Greg supposed being a parent wasn’t easy when you had been accustomed to chasing your partner around London all day. Especially if you assumed you were now a single parent. But Greg stood by what he had been saying to Mycroft the day before. John and Sherlock had to figure it out on their own, without anyone else pushing them.

“Actually, no,” Greg responded. He felt awkward, hovering in the center of the room, and he licked his lips nervously.

“It’s about Mycroft,” Sherlock said calmly, reaching out towards John, who handed him Rosie automatically. Sherlock settled her on his leg, bouncing it lightly and making her giggle.

“Mycroft?” John, who didn’t seem to register that he had given his daughter to Sherlock based on the loose way he was holding his arms, asked. “What’s Mycroft got to do with this?”

Sherlock inclined his head, looking directly at Greg now. “If it’s not about a case it’s always about Mycroft, and you clearly just stopped by his house on your way home from work. Whatever it is can’t be too pressing, or you would have cut me off by now.” His eyes narrowed, “You haven’t had a fight, have you? Did he kick you out?”

“Of course not,” Greg responded at the same time that John said, “Kicked him out? What are you talking about?”

“I thought he might have,” Sherlock said, ignoring John. “You’re clearly stressed, judging by the way you’ve been fidgeting the entire time you’ve been standing there, and as I said, you did just come from his place. A fight seems the most likely conclusion.”

“Mycroft did not kick me out,” if someone had told Greg even just a year ago that he’d be having this conversation with Sherlock, he would have thrown them in the drunk tank. “And if we had a fight, you’re not the first person I’d go running to.”

“Then what?”

“I’m sorry,” John cut in. “Does someone what to let me in on this? Or should I take Rosie upstairs, since I’m clearly not needed?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John, his face softening for a moment, and then back to Greg, “Would you like to tell him, or should I?”

“Mycroft and I are sort of…dating,” Greg explained to John, who looked completely dumbstruck at the words. “It’s kind of a new thing, but…yeah. We’re together.”

“You and Mycroft,” John repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“That’s the one.”

“Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft?”

“Oh for god’s sake, John,” Sherlock interjected, “ _yes_ , Lestrade and Mycroft are a couple. They’ve been pining after each other for years. It’s…sickening.” He shuddered, and Rosie poked him curiously. Sherlock stroked her hair to reassure her that he was fine.

John looked from Greg to Sherlock and back again. Greg could almost see the gears turning in his head. “I didn’t know you…liked men,” John said slowly.

Greg gave half a shrug, “I’ve known I was bi most of my life. People forget that when you get married. Anyway, that’s defiantly not why I’m here.”

“Right,” John nodded. The revelation was starting to fade from his eyes. “Sorry, why are you here again?”

“I was wondering if you two wanted to do something this weekend,” Greg said quickly, wanting to get it over with. “I think Mycroft needs to get out of the house more, and he needs to see that more people actually like him.” At the silence from both men, he tacked on, “It was just an idea.”

“You want us to go on, what, like a double date with you and Mycroft?” John clarified. At his words, Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he stared at John, who seemed oblivious to the effect they had on the detective. Greg would have laughed if it hadn’t been happening for years.

“Something like that, yeah,” Greg confirmed. “Not like dinner and a movie, but, I dunno, bowling or something.”

John laughed, which drew surprise from everyone, including Rosie, whose attention finally left Sherlock to focus on her father. He looked over at Sherlock and then at Greg, “I don’t think anything would make me happier than seeing Mycroft _bowling_. It’d be like seeing a penguin at Tesco’s.”

Not a perfect answer, but Greg would take it. He turned to Sherlock, “You in?”

Sherlock didn’t look away from John, but waved the hand not supporting Rosie, “Yes, fine.” His brow was furrowed, like he was thinking deeply about something that confused him.

Greg left him to it and addressed John directly. “Saturday, then? We can meet up here at, say, three in the afternoon?”

“Sounds like a plan,” John said. “I’ll see if Mrs. Hudson or Molly are open to babysitting.”

“Great,” Greg bobbed his head a few times, and then said, “Well. I’d better get going. I’ll see you two tomorrow afternoon, assuming a case doesn’t come up between now and then.”

Even as he moved to leave, Sherlock called after him, “If that happens, I can always solve it for you. We would be an hour late at most.”

“He’s gone, Sherlock,” Greg heard John say behind him.

When he stepped out onto the street, Greg’s phone pinged at him, and he pulled it out to look at it.

Tell Mycroft to ditch the suit this weekend – SH

Greg looked up and saw Sherlock watching him through the window of Baker Street. He inclined his head when he noticed the policeman looking at him, and then disappeared from view.

That night, when Greg told Mycroft about the plan, the younger man looked askance, “Bowling. We’re going _bowling_.”

“It won’t be that bad,” Greg said, smoothing his hand down Mycroft’s arm. They were cuddled up on the couch in Mycroft’s home theater, a movie neither of them was paying attention to playing in the background. “I know you’re not big on ‘normal’ activities, but it’ll be fun. I promise.” He kissed Mycroft’s temple, and then added, “And since Sherlock will be there, maybe you two can clear some things up. You keep dancing around each other, assuming you know what the other is thinking. You should just be direct.”

Mycroft looked at Greg, who noticed something he hesitated to name in the other man’s eyes. After a moment, Mycroft said, “You’re smarter than people give you credit for, Gregory.”

Greg grinned, “Coming from you, I’d say that’s a massive compliment.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft agree, smiling. “I do believe I like this sentiment thing more than I anticipated.”

“Translation,” Greg kissed his nose, “You’re a sap.”

Mycroft returned the kiss with one to Greg’s lips. When he pulled away, he said, “Perhaps I am. And if you ever tell anyone, I’m afraid I will have to do something rather drastic.”

“Promise?” Greg asked cheekily.

The stern look Mycroft gave him was rather ineffective, considering the smile that was threatening to twist his lips, and all it did was encourage Greg that his flirting was well received. “Promise me you’ll be on your best behavior tomorrow, okay?” he asked Mycroft.

Mycroft looked a touch offended, “Aren’t I always?”

Greg fixed him with a more intense look, “I’m serious. I don’t want you rising to it if John or Sherlock baits you.”

Hesitantly, Mycroft nodded. “Fine. I give you my word that I will behave properly tomorrow. Happy?”

“Very much,” Greg grinned, and kissed him again.

The following morning, Mycroft woke up to the sounds of Greg rummaging through his closet. He propped himself up on one elbow and asked, “Gregory? What are you doing?”

Greg turned to look at his boyfriend. Mycroft was really very attractive in the morning, a small part of his brain noted. Hair mussed from sleep, the light hitting him and making his skin glow, he looked…human, instead of like he’d stepped off the pages of a detective novel. Shaking himself slightly to banish the thought, he said, “Do you even own clothing besides three-piece suits?”

Mycroft sat up more fully and gestured to the dresser, “That’s not just for decoration.” He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

Greg shut the closet door and moved over to the dresser, opening the top drawer to reveal neatly folded workout clothes, tracksuit bottoms and both long and short-sleeved t-shirts. He closed the drawer and moved on to the next. “Because you’re not going bowling looking like you took a wrong turn on your way to meet the Queen for tea,” he answered.

“Why do you assume I know the Queen on such a personal basis?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shot him a look, and then his face split into a wide smile as he pulled out another drawer. “This’ll be perfect,” he said. He pulled out the outfit and put it at the foot of the bed. “You should definitely wear this.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “You’re taking quite a lot of pleasure in dressing me.”

“Would you rather I took pleasure in undressing you?” Greg could tell, even as he said it, that he’d stepped over a line, and he winced. Mycroft’s face closed off and he looked away. Greg cleared his throat and said carefully, “Let’s forget I said that. I’m going to get dressed, and then I’ll go make breakfast. You can just come downstairs when you’re ready.” He grabbed his own clothes and fled the room, acutely aware of what a terrible idea changing in front of Mycroft would be at the moment. Behind him, the inspector didn’t see the way Mycroft’s face fell, or the way he buried his head in his hands.

When Mycroft did venture downstairs, fully dressed in the clothes Greg had picked out for him, Greg looked up only briefly from making omelets before he focused his gaze on the pan again. His throat was still very tight, and he found he couldn’t bring himself to meet his boyfriend’s eyes.

He heard the footsteps echo loudly on the tiled kitchen floor as Mycroft moved closer. He paused behind Greg, close enough that Greg could feel the warmth of Mycroft’s body, and then he slipped his arms around the policeman, hugging him from behind. Greg relaxed slightly into the embrace, and he felt Mycroft place a gentle kiss on the back of his neck before moving away again. It was enough to tell Greg that he’d been forgiven.

Still, without looking at Mycroft, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Mycroft replied. His voice was strained. “I have not been…entirely forthcoming with you, so if any of your actions cause me distress, it is solely on my shoulders and not your own.”

“That’s shit logic,” Greg turned to face him. “I get it, okay? You’re really fucking repressed and that makes it hard for you to tell me stuff, but that doesn’t mean I’m a moron. I should be able to tell when something I’ve done upsets you.”

“And you did,” Mycroft said sharply. “You stopped the moment you realized I was uncomfortable. You are a good person, Gregory, and it’s not your fault that I...” He seemed unable to complete the sentence.

“I pushed too far,” Greg countered. “I didn’t think.”

“I goaded you into it,” Mycroft retorted, his face twisted up in a complex emotion that Greg couldn’t even begin to unravel. “I encouraged you.” The bite of his tone was directed entirely at himself, Greg realized.

“Why?” he asked, very quietly. “Why would you do that?”

Mycroft’s voice was equally quiet but a great deal more broken when he replied, “Because I wanted to feel normal for once. Like I wasn’t damaged.”

There was a brief moment where it felt like Greg’s knees were going to give out, but when it didn’t happen, he closed the distance between them in a few broad strides. He grasped Mycroft’s shoulders and with so little space between them he could see that Mycroft was crying. Greg opened his mouth, trying to dredge up something to say, but when he couldn’t, he pulled Mycroft into a tight hug. Finally, he managed, “I’m so, so sorry, love.”

He was startled when Mycroft let out a hiccupping laugh through the tears. “This is getting to be quite the habit,” he said softly. “Me breaking down, and you holding me while I cry pathetically.”

Greg squeezed tighter. “You’re not pathetic, Mycroft.”

“I’m broken,” came the choked response, “so very broken.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Greg soothed, “to help you put the pieces back together. You’ve been through so much, love, and obviously more than you’re telling me, but you’ve survived it all. Broken doesn’t mean unfixable.”

Behind them, the pan let out an angry crackling sound, and wisps of smoke drifted lazily into the air. “I think you’re burning breakfast,” Mycroft mumbled.

“Fuck breakfast.”

That earned a tiny laugh as Mycroft’s tears slowly began to subside. “I thought that was my line.”

Greg pulled back, not letting go of Mycroft but wanting to see his face. He cupped his cheek and wiped a stray tear away with his thumb. “You going to be okay?” he asked softly.

Mycroft managed a shaky smile. “Eventually, I suppose.”

“Alright,” Greg released him and moved to pull the pan off of the burner. As Mycroft had anticipated, the omelet was ruined, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to care. He turned the stove off and poured a glass of water instead, which he pushed into Mycroft’s hand. “Don’t want you getting dehydrated from crying,” he explained.

Mycroft accepted the offering, leaning against the counter and draining the glass in a few swallows while Greg disposed of the ruined food. After a minute of quiet, Greg offered, “I can tell Sherlock we’re canceling, if you’d like.”

“No,” Mycroft answered quickly. When Greg looked at him, he said, “I…I want to go. I just need some time to calm down.”

“We have plenty of time,” Greg reassured him. “Whatever you need.”

A few hours, half a box of Anthea-delivered waffles, and a good deal of cuddling later, Greg and Mycroft climbed into the back of one of his black cars to depart for Baker Street.

“Must be nice,” Greg commented, “having your own taxi service.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to him, and then out the window. “Well, it does decrease the odds of being picked up by serial killer cabbie.” There was humor in the words, but it didn’t match the expression on the man’s face.

Greg watched Mycroft watch the window. After his meltdown that morning, Mycroft seemed to have recovered, but it was always hard to tell. Greg couldn’t determine if his boyfriend was still upset over that or simply worried about seeing his brother.

There had been a moment, earlier, where Greg had asked, “You’re going to tell me what that was all about eventually, right?”

Mycroft’s response of “I expect I will, eventually” hadn’t been very encouraging.

By the time they pulled up to 221 Baker Street, Mycroft was actually tapping his foot, a nervous habit Greg knew from experience was reserved for when he was the most nervous about something. Still, he got out of the car, and Greg followed him. The driver pulled away, and Mycroft stared at the door for several long moments before he sighed and rapped the knocker.

“It’ll be fine,” Greg smiled encouragingly at him.

A heartbeat later, Mrs. Hudson pulled open the door. She smiled warmly at Greg, but her eyes frosted a bit when she noticed Mycroft. “The boys are upstairs,” she said, a bit curtly. “They’re almost ready.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Greg responded, moving past her. Mycroft followed him closely.

As the two men ascended the stairs, Mrs. Hudson called up after them, “And do try not to get this place blown up again.”

Greg didn’t need to see Mycroft’s face to know he was grimacing, and he paused on the landing to reach back and squeeze Mycroft’s hand gently. Then, together, they stepped into the living room of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was hovering by the mirror, ruffling his hair and hissing in annoyance when it didn’t obey him. He hadn’t dressed down at all; he was wearing that purple shirt he loved and a pair of slacks. Admittedly, it was a good look on him, not that Greg would have ever said it aloud.

“Looking to impress someone, brother dear?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock swiveled on his heels, surprise blinking quickly across his face, before the expression was replaced by a more neutral one. “If I was, it wouldn’t be you.” He strode towards them, stopping a few feet away. “I see you’re letting Lestrade dress you now.” He paused, then admitted, “not a bad job, either. You look positively…pedestrian.”

Greg wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, but Mycroft didn’t seem to take offense to it. The brothers sized each other up for a moment, clearly trying to interpret what the other was thinking, before Mycroft broke first and said, “It’s good to see you again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave a small but genuine smile, “The feeling is mutual. I do apologize for our parents’ behavior towards you.”

“There’s nothing you could have done. You know how Mummy gets once she’s made up her mind. But thank you all the same.”

Greg was pretty sure he’d just witnessed a minor miracle, but the moment was broken by John’s descending footsteps. He was carrying Rosie, and like Sherlock he hadn’t changed his look much at all, favoring his usual checked button-down and jeans, and as he entered the room he said, “Right, Mrs. Hudson’s agreed to watch Rosie, so if you’re about done with your hair, then I’d say we’re…” He trailed off, drawn up short at the sight of Greg and Mycroft, although his eyes were glued on the latter. Greg had to stifle a snort of laughter, because the sight of Mycroft in a red turtleneck and jeans, as opposed to his omnipresent suit, garnered about the reaction he had expected from John, who opened and closed his mouth several times without sound coming out and generally did a magnificent impression of a goldfish. Greg got the distinct feeling that Mycroft was enjoying John’s speechlessness a touch more than even he was.

Sherlock choose to ignore John’s paralysis and liberated Rosie from his arms as he swept past, saying as he did, “Come on, then. John, do close your mouth, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

John registered the words and shook himself out of the stupor. As the three made to follow Sherlock out of the flat, Greg asked John, “Exactly how long did he spend on his hair?”

John considered and asked, “Was he still messing with it when you got here?”

“Yeah.”

“Then at least twenty minutes.”

Greg laughed, and Mycroft murmured under his breath, “It’s almost as if he’s preparing for a date.” Greg elbowed him in retaliation.

From the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock said, “I know you’re all talking about me.” He handed Rosie off to Mrs. Hudson, to which the little girl reacted by breaking into an earthshattering wail and reaching out for Sherlock with both hands.

John, ever the concerned parent, went to intercept, but Mrs. Hudson waved him off. “She’ll be fine once you’ve gone,” she said knowingly. “Separation anxiety. Babies always calm down after the parents leave.”

Greg and Mycroft shared a look with each other, and then Greg caught Mrs. Hudson’s eye. She smiled at him, a bit tight-lipped, and all but winked. Neither Sherlock nor John noticed.

As promised, the wailing quieted the moment the door to 221 Baker Street shut behind the group, and Sherlock set off at a brisk pace, his Belstaff billowing dramatically behind him. John, accustomed to chasing Sherlock on his much shorter legs, followed with ease, and Greg linked his hand with Mycroft and pulled him along to make up the tail of the party.

“We could always take a car,” Greg suggested, not sure if he was suggesting a cab or one of Mycroft’s ominous black cars.

Sherlock called back, “And miss the opportunity to make my brother exercise? Never. It’s not like he doesn’t need it.”

Behind his back, Greg had a very intense conversation with Mycroft without saying a word. While Mycroft had never admitted the contributing causes to his eating disorder, Sherlock’s near constant jabs at his weight couldn’t have helped. Greg doubted the comments were meant maliciously; Sherlock was probably just riling Mycroft up the way brothers often did, by poking at sore spots. Greg had a brother, he knew how it worked, but he also knew that there was a line Sherlock wasn’t aware he was crossing. He was fairly confident that if Sherlock knew, he would stop, and Greg did his best to convey that to Mycroft without actually speaking.

The look Mycroft shot him back, full of scorn and stubbornness (and dear god, how did the man have such expressive eyebrows?) made it quite clear that Mycroft had no intention of telling Sherlock anything. He would rather suffer in silence, as always.

Greg sighed and added it to the list of things he would need to discuss with Mycroft at some point in the future. It was getting to be quite a long list, and Greg wondered if there was a way to pass it off to Mycroft’s therapist, because if he knew anything about Mycroft, it was that it would take a very long time before he told her anything voluntarily.

The closest bowling alley was a good twenty minute walk from Baker Street, and during that time there was little conversation, as most energy on all parties went to keeping up with Sherlock’s long strides, but Greg did notice at least two instances where Sherlock’s eyes caught on his and Mycroft’s clasped hands when he looked back. Both times, Greg saw Sherlock smile to himself, clearly pleased, and the second time Greg murmured in Mycroft’s ear, “I think your brother thinks he got us together.”

“In a way, I suppose he did,” Mycroft responded in the same low voice.

“All the same, let’s not give him any of the credit.”

“Agreed.”

If there were also at least four times that Sherlock glanced back specifically to look at John, well, Greg didn’t say a word.

The alley was a little crowded, given that it was the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday in early February, but there was still a lane open.

The look on Sherlock’s face as John patiently explained to him that yes, he really did have to wear bowling shoes, was priceless, and Greg almost wanted to take a picture. Once balls were chosen and names were logged in the system, it became even more apparent that Sherlock had never been bowling in his life.

While John showed him how to hold the ball and throw it so as not to dent the alley floor and get them all kicked out, Greg shook his head and said, “I know you two didn’t exactly have a normal childhood, but I would have thought you’d been bowling before.”

“Well, we were very obstinate children,” Mycroft responded. “And we were prone to dismissing the ordinary as unworthy of our attention.”

“Can’t imagine that,” Greg said sarcastically. He teased, “So what about me, then? Am I unworthy of your attention?”

The look Mycroft gave him made the policeman’s joke fall flat, and his stomach twisted when Mycroft said with complete sincerity, “You, Gregory, are anything but ordinary.”

They held eye contact for a very long moment, until the spell was broken by John calling, “Greg, it’s your go, and please do it quickly before Sherlock proves he’s a drama queen right here for everyone to see.”

Sherlock shot John an offended look and Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg, “How they don’t see what an old married couple they are is a mystery to me.”

Greg laughed as he picked up his ball, passing Sherlock, who dropped into his seat with a pout. By the time the game was halfway over, Sherlock was losing rather spectacularly, with everyone else doing moderately well.

“It’s physics, John,” Sherlock complained after his third gutter ball in a row. “Physics indicates that throwing the ball at that angle with that velocity _should_ result in a perfect hit at the center of the pins.”

“Well, physics must be wrong then, because god knows you can’t be,” John deadpanned. Sherlock’s hurt expression was muted somewhat by the way his face softened when John looked away.

Towards the end of the game, there was a moment where Sherlock leaned over to Mycroft and said something to him that Greg couldn’t quite hear. Mycroft looked surprised, then contemplative, and then murmured something to him in response. Greg glanced at John, who was up for his turn and thus oblivious to the Holmes brothers’ conversation, and then back at his boyfriend. Sherlock settled back in his chair and frowned thoughtfully, and Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders.

“Feeling left out?” Mycroft turned his attention back to Greg.

“A bit, maybe,” Greg pouted for effect.

Mycroft kissed him softly and Sherlock gagged, “Get a room. Next time I see Lestrade at a crime scene I don’t want to be picturing him making out with my older brother.”

“We’re hardly making out,” Mycroft retorted calmly, “and if it bothers you so much then you can delete it.”

“Did I miss something?” John asked, returning to the group.

“Lestrade and Mycroft are being sickening,” Sherlock said.

John glanced at the couple, both of whom assumed innocent expressions. John chuckled, “Just because you’re allergic to romance doesn’t mean everyone is, Sherlock.”

“I think you’ll find that Sherlock’s not allergic to romance, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said. “It just takes a very special sort of person to bring it out in him.”

The filthy look Sherlock shot him only made Mycroft incline his head in a ‘tell me I’m wrong?’ gesture. John just looked confused by the exchange.

It was a close game, with Greg edging out John by only a handful of points. Sherlock, of course, didn’t even hit a hundred points, and he sulked about it at the back of the group on the walk home. At the slower pace, everyone was much more talkative, and at one point, Mycroft asked, “So, Doctor Watson. I see you’ve moved back into Baker Street, then. For good, this time?”

“Well, at least you didn’t kidnap me to ask this time,” John sighed theatrically. “Yeah, I plan to stay there. Sherlock’s even promised to limit experiments to his bedroom and Bart’s so Rosie doesn’t get into anything she shouldn’t.”

“Feels like coming home, doesn’t it?”

John gave Mycroft a look full of significance Greg didn’t understand, “It is coming home.”

Greg couldn’t help but glance back at Sherlock, who had clearly heard the statement and was staring at John’s back intently.

As they arrived at the door of 221 Baker Street, a black car pulled up at the curb. Greg hadn’t seen Mycroft touch his phone once, so he didn’t have a clue how his boyfriend had summoned it, but he doubted he wanted to know. After brief goodbyes, John hurried into the house, undoubtedly anxious to get back to Rosie, but Sherlock paused on the doorstep to address Mycroft directly, “You’ve found one of the best men I’ve ever made acquaintance with.   _Don’t_ mess it up.”

Mycroft cocked his head at his brother, “I’ll certainly keep that in mind, brother dear.” As Sherlock turned his back, Mycroft added, “And do say hello to your daughter for us.”

Sherlock froze, back still turned, and then marched into the flat, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Did you need to do that?” Greg asked Mycroft as he yanked open the car door. He slid inside and Mycroft followed, looking entirely innocent.

“My interactions with Sherlock this afternoon made it clear to me that he is not in the dark about how he feels about John,” Mycroft said. “Back at the bowling alley, when he spoke to me privately, he was asking what the appropriate timeframe to express an interest in a person was when that person had just gotten out of a relationship.”

“Like, for example, if his wife has just died?”

“Quite.” Mycroft inclined his head.

“So what did you tell him?” Greg asked,

Mycroft leaned back, threading his fingers through Greg’s. “I told him there’s no set timetable. After all, we spent quite a while pining after each other even after your divorce had been finalized. But I did hint strongly that living under the same roof and carrying for a child together, while not inherently indicating romantic attachment, is certainly an indicator that an advance would not be entirely unwelcome, especially when coupled with a great deal of history between the two parties.”

“You’re a devious bastard, Mycroft Holmes, do you know that?”

Mycroft smiled what Greg occasionally called his ‘puppet master’ smile, “I do believe I’m aware. But you love me anyway.”

Greg gave his boyfriend’s hand a squeeze and said, “God help me, I do.”


End file.
